


shoot me down (i won't ever hit the ground)

by sapphicish



Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fix-It, Gen, Limbo, Spoilers for 3x23, and a really vague oc who just wants a fucking BREAK @ god, light metaphors and symbolism, other untagged characters show up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-08
Updated: 2018-05-08
Packaged: 2019-05-03 21:41:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14578251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapphicish/pseuds/sapphicish
Summary: “I'm in limbo,” Charlotte says out loud, and it sounds all the more ridiculous for it. Somehow.





	shoot me down (i won't ever hit the ground)

**Author's Note:**

> this was very hastily written before i went to bed this morning and i didn't really look over it again since then so if you read it and think What The Fuck Are You Doing my answer is: i'm FIXING THIS SHOW i'm canceling out BAD WRITING with WORSE BUT HAPPIER WRITING LIKE REAL MEN DO

She wakes up in a white room.

A white woman in a white suit with a white pen and white nails clicks the pen pointedly in front of Charlotte's face. “Wake up, Charlotte.”

Charlotte blinks. “Where am I,” she asks.

“Where do you want to be,” the woman replies.

Charlotte wants to tell her she has no time for this, but then she looks down and sees the blood spread out across her blouse; not white, not clean, not bleached. She touches it; drops her hand, fingers drifting across the white chair she's sitting on. Leaves red streaks behind. The woman above her makes a face. “Do not,” she says, leans close over Charlotte and clicks the pen again like a threat, “Do that.”

Charlotte shakes her head; dizzy, disoriented. All the white blurs together in her vision, no matter how much she blinks to clear it. “Sorry,” she hears herself say faintly. “Where am I?”

The woman sighs. Flips the pen around. “Where do you want to be?”

“I don't understand,” she mumbles, distracted by the feeling of something dripping down her side. She touches it again; there's no pain even though she's bleeding, just that faint tickle, a sensation crawling down her hip and spine. Distracted, too, by what seems to be a waiting office; a very pale, blank, _pristine_ waiting office. It has no decorations; nothing on the walls, no rugs, not even visible tile; just a smooth, porcelain floor, no chairs except for the one she's sitting in and a long, thin sofa across the room against a wall. Someone is sitting in it. “Who are you?”

The pen clicks directly next to her ear, sharp and loud and sudden. _Click click._ “Pay attention, Charlotte. Where do you want to be?”

Agitation replaces a deep-seated sort of exhaustion. And confusion. And more exhaustion. “What are you talking about? Who are you, where am I, and why am I—bleeding? What is this?”

 _Click click click._ The woman sighs. Again. Manicured hands clench around the pen. Her voice is droning. “Bloody hell.”

Charlotte's mind flickers—for a moment, the woman sounds so much like...someone. Someone. She strains to remember that, but it slips away through her fingers like sand.

“Stick to the script, Zerachiel,” comes a lazy voice from the sofa. The person sitting in it is a man, judging by the voice; tall, thin, long-limbed, all white like the woman with the pen; skin like paper, a voice like...like...the woman's. But not quite. Something else. Charlotte closes her eyes for a moment, and it's gone. “It's easier.”

“Be quiet, Jophiel,” she says coolly, and crouches in front of Charlotte. “You have two choices. You can stay here and be taken to the Silver City, as it is God's will; or you can leave here, and return to the mortal plane. As it is God's will. I do not see why you would _want_ to return to the mortal plane, but—“ She stands in a sharp-quick movement, silent, no bones creaking or clothes shifting as she does. “You can.”

Charlotte shakes her head, almost feels her skull rattle. “Wait. What?”

 _Click._ “You are dead; or, if you choose, you can be dying.”

“Wh—“

“Do not say 'what' again, or I will—“ A suck of breath through teeth. _Click click click._

“I'm in limbo,” Charlotte says out loud in a sudden, sharp moment of clarity, and it sounds all the more ridiculous for it. Somehow.

The woman sniffs, haughty; taps long nails against the side of the pen. “We do not call it that.”

“But yes,” the man says, and drifts away across the room and out of a door.

With his absence, the confusion returns – not quite as bad, but _bad,_ to the point where Charlotte has to think before she speaks. “Where is he going?”

“He has other duties. And.” _Click._ “So do I. Choose.”

“How is—it God's will? I thought...” Charlotte trails off. She doesn't know what she thought; didn't even know where she was going with that in the first place. The blood keeps dripping, warm on her side. Her thoughts slip and slide away again.

“You have been judged worthy of being given a choice. A rare opportunity; a rare _blessing._ You should be grateful.”

“I...” Charlotte's mouth is dry. “Was I here before?”

“No. You were not.”

“Was I somewhere else?”

The woman looks at her; clicks the pen. “Choose. You are running out of time.”

“Can I have a minute?” she tries, weakly, pressing her hand to her side again. No pain. A small mercy. “I can't...my head—“

 _Click click click CLICK._ The woman tosses the pen onto the simple white desk behind her with a sigh of what sounds like disgust; Charlotte would be annoyed, feels like she should be, but there's nothing but the blood, the dizziness.

“A minute,” the woman says. And then she is in front of Charlotte, arms folded; pen back; _click click._ “Time's up. Choose.”

“You didn't...”

“I did. Choose.” She leans in; over; looms like a white shadow, but she doesn't have a shadow at all, and neither—she looks at the ground to check—does Charlotte. Nothing casts a shadow in this place; it is all bright, cold light. Bright, cold. Bright.

“I have someone,” Charlotte says, almost a question. “I need to...to go. Back.” She has someone. She has to have someone. Surely. It's almost on the tip of her tongue.

But the woman rolls her eyes, straightens. _Click._ “So be it.” She nods to an adjoining room, the door slightly cracked. “Take the elevator down.”

Charlotte stands, surprisingly steady; her bloody fingers stick to the doorknob, but she opens it, leaves red in her wake, a startling splash of ugly color on all the—

-

White.

Charlotte groans when she awakens, fingers curling in thin sheets as a jolt of pain and awareness floods her. It takes her what feels like an eternity before her eyes finally open, but by then someone in a chair at her bedside is stirring. _Ella:_ she recognizes the girl immediately, peaceful in sleep but immediately _not_ when she wakes, jumping to her feet, arms flailing. “Oh my God,” she gasps, “Charlotte, you're—oh my God. I'll—I'll be right back! Don't move! Like, I know you can't because you're—I mean—just don't move!” She races out of the room.

Charlotte's eyes drift shut again; she can't help it, though she's very aware of everything from the beeping of the machines around her to the voices outside in the corridor, none which she recognizes until – “YOU GUYS SHE'S AWAKE,” Ella screams, and Charlotte winces, eyes flicking open. The room is a shock to her system like it had been the moment she woke up; too bright and white and cold, and it certainly doesn't help the ache in her head and behind her eyes.

Her head feels heavy and unclear, blurry and spinning; she has the oddest feeling that she's done something like leave the stove on at home, or forgotten to put dinner away, or forgotten _something_ important, but – there's a glass vase with a bouquet of white lilies on the bedside table, distracting her, and then the feeling is gone completely; particularly when the door opens and a flood of people rush in. Lucifer, lingering awkwardly by the door; Ella, again, rushing to her side and holding her hand, grinning like sunshine; even Chloe is there, with Lucifer, smiling—

Dan pushes past them all and collapses into the chair Ella had been in, lurching forward to grab Charlotte's other hand wordlessly; eyes soft and wide and frantic.

Charlotte has to look away for a moment; even in her half-absent state, mind still partly asleep, the weight of his gaze is too much, like steel weights on her chest.

“Hi,” he says.

She looks back; it takes her a few tries, but her voice finally emerges in a quiet rasp. “Hi.”

He laughs, a broken relieved thing.

Charlotte sighs, shutting her eyes. Just for a moment. She's so _tired._ “Who brought the flowers?” she mumbles, squeezes his hand weakly. “They're nice.”

“No idea,” he says, close to her ear when he leans forward and kisses her cheek. “Might have been Lucifer.”

“What,” Charlotte says dryly, “You forgot to bring me flowers?”

“Yeah.” He grins. “Sorry. Maybe next time you get shot, huh?”

Charlotte grimaces. “No next time. Ever.”

“Yeah,” he whispers, kisses her again. “Sounds good to me.”

**Author's Note:**

> if you're curious: i imagined zerachiel as [katherine kelly](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/c2/82/73/c282731ab1cdd44012c8a03f28433d77.jpg) in bbc's class while writing this
> 
> end thoughts: can writers of shows stop using men to kill off my favorite female characters to "further the plot"? i'd love that! thanks.
> 
> "lilies symbolize that the soul of the departed has received restored innocence after death" cause we all know god loves that gay ass symbolism


End file.
